


In Remembrance of a Shroud

by woodenwashbucket



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A touch of swearing, Angst, Batman records everything, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce is very unsure, But soft and gentle angst, Canon can go jump in a lake, Conversations, Gen, Important note no throat cutting or such-like occurred how I tell it, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason is very drunk, Jewish Bruce is canon though so I'm keeping that even if DC forgets about it all the time, Oh look feelings about Bruce and Jason it must be any hour of day or night, Quoting Shakespeare and A E Housman, They Are Both Trying, Willful ignorance of some canon and flagrant disregard for the rest, because Jason, referenced temporary character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodenwashbucket/pseuds/woodenwashbucket
Summary: What Bruce knows is that Jason has showed up at the Manor, apparently to talk to him, very drunk. What Bruce doesn't know is why.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 26
Kudos: 407





	In Remembrance of a Shroud

**Author's Note:**

> This is set sometime during a long, slow reconciliation.

Bruce was reading in the smaller solarium and trying to relax. With some limited success, he had to admit – to himself, at least. He’d replaced the older wall clock in this room with a modern clock with a sweep second hand, so there was no ticking to distract him from the faint sounds of night on the Manor grounds coming in the open French windows. It was moderately soothing until some of the faint sounds resolved themselves into the noise of someone sneaking toward the house.

Bruce kept looking at his book and catalogued the improviseable weapons within reach by efficacy. He noted sourly, turning an unread page, that it was a more effective relaxation technique than reading. A scuffing noise (hard rubber sole on stone patio) was followed by a mumbled “shit,” and Bruce looked up to see his second son waver into view. He blinked.

Jason blinked back.

“Hey, old man,” he said, blinking again. “Sorry to interrupt your night and silence.” Bruce laid his book aside and sat up in his chair, looking Jason over carefully.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, neutrally.

“Nahhhh.” Jason navigated the French windows successfully, then half-fell to sitting on the arm of Bruce’s chair.

“You’re drunk,” Bruce said, certainty arriving on Jason’s breath.

“Yep,” Jason nodded. “Sure as shit am.”

“Why?” Bruce risked, unsure if the question would set Jason off.

“Malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to Man,” Jason told him, grinning.

“You’re drunk and quoting old English poetry,” Bruce said.

“Psh, when am I not quoting old English poetry,” Jason scoffed. He blinked again, several times, then squinted at the lamp. Bruce waited. Jason shifted uncomfortably a few times and then turned to him.

“D’you know what today is?” he asked, slurring slightly.

“Tuesday,” Bruce said, which for some reason was apparently the funniest thing Jason had ever heard. After a long stretch of nearly-silent laughter, he straightened up, abruptly serious.

“’S five years,” he said. He held out a hand, fingers spread, and then wobbled. “Uh,” he said, planting the hand on Bruce’s chest for stability. Bruce stayed very still.

Four years, eleven months, and almost two weeks ago, Bruce had buried the boy who was leaning on him now.

“Time is it?” asked Jason.

“It’s a little after nine,” Bruce said.

“Mmm. Five years an’, like, two hours ago, I decided to run off alone to find my biomom.” Jason nodded several times and blinked again.

“And that’s why you got drunk?” Bruce asked, carefully.

“What? No,” Jason scoffed again. He wobbled, despite his hand still pressing into Bruce’s chest.

“Are you…getting drunker?” Bruce asked, concerned again for injury and poison.

“Prob’ly.” Jason sniffed. “Got to the grounds ‘n’ realized I wasn’ drunk enough. Not for you, an’ here.” He waved vaguely to the house. “So I…. I started with beer.” He looked Bruce very seriously in the face. “Malt.”

“I see,” Bruce told him. He tried not to think about Jason wanting to be so drunk he couldn’t stand straight just to come home. Just to see Bruce. He couldn’t not.

“But…vodka.” Jason said it like it explained everything. Bruce waited again. “I brought vodka,” Jason finally went on, leaning in until his face was resting on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce was so still he hardly breathed. “Drank it on the way up the drive. Whole thing. Now ‘m drunk enough.”

“Why did you get drunk tonight, Jason?” Bruce asked quietly. Jason turned his head and mumbled into Bruce’s ear.

“’S a secret. Don’t tell.”

“I won’t tell.”

“No, don’ tell you. Secret. From you.”

Bruce couldn’t think what to say to that. He ached to know what to say. He always did now, with Jason.

“No,” Jason said, pushing on Bruce’s chest to lean back. “’M s’posed to be nice now. ‘M being nice. Secret ‘cause it would make you sad. Or mad.” He blinked again. “Only ever make you sad or mad. When I was Robin I could make you feel better. Now I…” He trailed off.

“Jason, why did you get drunk tonight?” Bruce pressed. It felt important, somehow. And he couldn’t address what Jason had just said, couldn’t find the words to make it different. Couldn’t figure out how to deny it.

“Nuh uh. ‘M being nice. I may be an-“ Jason took a deep breath and yelled at the ceiling, “IRREDEMABLE BASTARD-“ He slumped back down. “But I can still try to be nice.” He seemed to gather himself. “Right. C’mon, old man, up. Couch.” He pulled and prodded unsteadily until Bruce rose and sat again in the middle of the couch that stood across from the windows. Jason promptly collapsed across Bruce’s lap, filling the entire couch and knocking half the breath out of Bruce.

“See?” Jason asked. He flopped an arm out and groped around until he found Bruce’s hand, which he grabbed. “Nice. To you. ‘Preciate it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bruce said, hiding his confusion. “Exactly how much did you drink?”

“Beers. Lots.” Jason considered. “Seven? But I started at lunch. And took a break. And then some at dinner. Maybe eight? Together?” He nodded to himself and snuggled his head into a couch cushion.

“And how much vodka?”

“All of it,” Jason said definitively.

“How much was there to start with?”

“A bottle,” Jason said. He tried to gesture with his hands, realized he couldn’t if he was holding Bruce’s, let go, then immediately grabbed it again. With his free hand, he moved Bruce’s fingers until they were resting on the pulse point in Jason’s wrist.

“Why did you get drunk today?” Bruce asked, a chill going down his spine. He should call for Alfred, they should test Jason’s BAC, they should get him to a bed and hook him up to an IV and give him activated charcoal because what if he was developing alcohol poisoning?

But it felt important. It felt urgent.

Jason shook his head.

“I won’t be mad, Jason,” Bruce promised. “I’m worried because I don’t know why you’re drinking a dangerous amount. I want to know why you did this to yourself.”

Jason scowled and looked away.

“I can’t do anything right, huh?” he asked, angry and sounding suddenly on the verge of tears. “Fuck you, I’m trying to help. I’m trying to be nice f’r fucking once.”

Bruce carefully and slowly reached out with his free hand and turned Jason’s head back.

“Please, Jason? Please tell me why?” he asked. Jason blinked watery eyes.

“Watched the footage,” he said, sounding young and anxious.

The suspicion sucker punched Bruce in the gut, turning his nerves to nausea.

“What footage?” he asked. He needed to be sure. He always needed to be sure. He couldn’t ever leave anything alone; couldn’t ever just assume.

“Body cam,” Jason said. He was very quiet. “When you found me.” Bruce’s hand tightened on Jason’s wrist. “I chickened out,” Jason offered, still anxious. “’Fore I saw much. But you…” he trailed off again. Bruce was feeling sicker by the second.

Bruce had cradled Jason’s cold body in his lap, sitting on the rubble. He’d held Jason’s wrist, pressed fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse for long minutes because he couldn’t believe the truth in front of him; couldn’t believe his son was dead. He’d screamed and wailed until he was numb and then hadn’t made another sound until saying the Kaddish by Jason’s grave.

Bruce slowly pulled Jason up to lean on his chest and wrapped him in a hug, holding him for all he was worth.

“Thought I could be nice,” Jason said into his shoulder. “’M sorry.”

“You are nice,” Bruce told him. He could barely keep the shaking out of his voice, out of his hands, at holding his son, alive.

“No,” Jason said, abruptly scornful and angry. “Killing Robin’s not nice. Killing you ‘n’ Dickie’s not nice. ‘N’ blowing up buildings an’ cutting off heads ‘n’ torture ‘n’ drugs ‘n’ all the shit I…. ‘M not nice.” He looked up at Bruce. “’N’ you’re not either. Yelling ‘n’ hurting ‘n’ blaming ‘n’ silent treatment an’ writing me off an’ don’t care about me an’ then ‘xpecting me t’work by YOUR rules ‘n’ this’s my city too. Didn’t even…wouldn’t even…” He stopped, gulping, and burrowed his head back into Bruce’s shoulder. “’M trying.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispered. His chest ached, it ached up into his throat, with all the words he knew he couldn’t say. “I’m sorry, Jason. I’m sorry. You are trying. And this is nice of you.”

“Is?”

“Yes,” Bruce assured him. “It is.”

Jason hummed into his shoulder.

Stay here with me, Bruce wanted to say. I do care about you, I have not written you off, you’re my son, I love you and I always will, Bruce wanted to say.

He waited, silently. When Jason fell asleep, he would carry him downstairs to the Cave and the medical suite, so he could make sure Jason would wake up with nothing worse than a hangover. He would wait there, and deflect questions from the others when they returned from patrol (and endure Dick’s smugness that he’d been right to make Bruce stay in), and Alfred would wait with him for some of the time. And when Jason woke up, sober and angry again, he didn’t know what he would do, but it would be the wrong thing. It was always the wrong thing, with all his children but especially with Jason.

But until then, Bruce could hold his son and listen to him breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> The order of events that led Jason to this was:   
> Oh hey, it's the anniversary of me deciding to run off on my own, which led to my death even if it wasn't my fault per se   
> Mayhaps I'll drink for lunch  
> Now that I'm a wee tad bit drunk and thinking about all this, it seems like a great idea to finally sneak into the Batcave and copy the footage of B finding my body in the wreckage! And watch it!  
> NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE  
> MORE ALCOHOL IMMEDIATELY  
> I can't make this suck any less for me but maybe dad would appreciate a tangible reminder I'm alive? Maybe? If he doesn't hate me right now?  
> MORE ALCOHOL! TO THE MANOR!
> 
> On a related note, Jason Todd is just as much a disaster as Bruce is.


End file.
